


Vacant Mirrors

by pilotisms



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)
Genre: And Of Course - Freeform, Anxiety Disorder, Bucky Barnes Goes to Therapy, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Tackles Online Dating, But Like While Depressed, Developing Friendships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Inappropriate Use of Metal Arm, Like A Real Slow Burn, Pre-The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV), Slow Burn, Therapy Waiting Room Meet Cute, Trauma, Two Idiots with PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 23:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30147399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Dr. Hart shares an office with Dr. Raynor.You share a waiting room with Bucky Barnes.( set before & during TFATWS )
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 35
Kudos: 310





	1. I LANDED ON YOU LIKE A SUCKER PUNCH

Dr. Hart’s office is nice.

Maybe a bit too sterile (but what can you expect with all its governmental brutalist interior design? And _Christ_ , this waiting room sofa is _not_ comfortable — despite that fact, it has become your own designated spot) but there is this little bonsai tree in the corner by the door that you like. A _lot_.

When you’d asked about it, Dr. Hart said her father had been given it as a gift after his service in the second world war and she’d tended to it since his passing a decade ago.

“It’s going on ninety-two years,” she shrugged, “It takes patience and some nurturing and a lot of learning, but I’ve kept it alive all this time… Some might say it’s a good allegory for therapy.”

She said it with a hint of sardonic humor. You laughed at that. “Plants are nice.”

“I thought you’d say that,” she clucked, “Is it because they’re predictable? No what-if’s or challenges there? Nothing like _people_.”

The jab was good-natured, but with a pointed edge; and back then, you didn’t know any better than to lie and try to hide the fact she’d just read you like a book she knew all too well. Dog-eared corners and all. You’d lied to her face, said some stupid bold faced lie. It was about liking surprises. It was an attempt to divert the conversation. To control it.

You hate surprises.

_Stupid_.

She knew better. And now that you’ve been seeing her for four months, you could argue she knew you better than anyone else in your life. Maybe that isn’t saying much — mostly since the three biggest people in your life happened to be Dr. Hart, your neighbor Miss Bonnie, and your cat Mister Poke Bowl.

… Dr. Hart kept saying Poke didn’t _count_ , but it felt just plain rude to discredit the calico’s clear, innate gift of listening. He was good at that. He always knew when you were having one of those moments. And, you two hung out, like, all the time. He definitely counted as a person. Or, maybe half of one.

For sure.

The door to the waiting room opens slowly, and your view of the bonsai tree disappears for a second. Suddenly, in its wake stands a tall, broad-shouldered man with a tired look. You blink. Your knee, for a moment, halts the rhythmic temp it had been locked into. Up and down and up and… down and up.

You’ve never seen _him_ before.

He must be one of Dr. Raynor’s patients. You’d met her a handful of times in passing. She shared an office space with Dr. Hart — the two ran a practice together in downtown Manhattan. You knew that Dr. Raynor worked with the VA, mostly military-related clientele. Usually, it was uniform-clad servicemen that found a seat next to you in the office, wringing their berets in clammy hands. You wish you could say you didn’t mind; they were all nice enough. It was just…

_People_. People are hard.

This man didn’t need a uniform for you to know he was a soldier.

The way he carries himself to talk to Paula, the lovely secretary behind the front desk, tells you all you need to know. It’s the cadence of his steps, the weight of his gait. He walks with purpose, but his expression says otherwise — almost as if he’s ashamed he takes up so much space in this quiet, little office.

You shift in your seat. Your knee resumes its bounce.

You find yourself staring; he looks horribly uncomfortable when he turns around to find a seat, and suddenly you find yourself wishing you could extend some sort of comfort. But, the thought of opening your mouth and speaking to the stranger is _wildly_ paralyzing.

He finds a spot diagonal to you in that emerald chair that creaks, beside the bonsai.

When Dr. Hart rounds the corner and calls your name a second later, you disappear into her office without a second glance. 

* * *

It’s him again.

You’re in the waiting room, fifteen minutes early like always.

He comes in two minutes after you and takes up the same spot as last time. Right by the bonsai. That emerald chair creaks as he sits with his legs spread and elbows resting on his knees. His head is bowed. He looks, frankly, like he could throw-up without a moment’s notice.

Again, the temptation to offer some sort of comfort bubbles up.

_Like, what? ‘It gets easier?’ Sure. We’ve all heard that line._

You swallow it down and sigh.

The quiet makes your ears ring. You don’t like this feeling of forced silence. Sometimes it’s even worse than conversation. It feels like picking the better of two evils. Dr. Hart says that’s a normal feeling. That sometimes we just don’t have enough in us to carry on a conversation; that recharging and listening is completely normal. She’d made a point to state that didn’t mean avoiding human interaction all together for the sake of comfort.

_“You need to learn how to live again. It’s going to look different from last time, but you don’t need to be anchored and drowned by your fear.”_

You cross your legs and weave your arms together and chew the inside of your lip.

When the stranger finally raises his head and leans back, you can’t help the way your eyes jump to his face. You feel like you’ve had a brick hurled at your skull when you realize he’s looking back at you with these big, tired, blue eyes. There’s a tense moment of pained realization that you’d both been caught looking; then he clears his throat and crosses his own arms. He rubs a gloved hand over his face.

His eyes find the door.

To you, the bonsai tree has now become tenfold more interesting.

But, in that millisecond, you’d had enough time to realize he’s handsome.

* * *

The next week, he’s there before you.

In your seat.

Your seat.

The one in the center of the far wall, the one where you can see both exits from. The one that has a good view of the hall where the other offices are, and the bonsai. That pale green couch isn’t comfortable in the fucking slightest but it does, somehow, bring you comfort. Routine. Structure.

You stutter-step when you push through the entrance to the office, half stuck on the rising panic of unplanned change, and half grimacing at the horrible realization you can’t ask him to move. That would be rude. Incredibly rude. He definitely wouldn’t. You wouldn’t want him to either. He looks… less like he’s going to yack. More calm.

You worry the sleeve of your sweater when you greet Paula. She gives you a sympathetic look, leaning to eye the man behind you when she checks you in. The artificial blonde leans, bending to reach under her desk.

“Twizzler for your trouble?” she whispers, tossing you a wink.

You smile, really smile, as you take one.

_“Thank you.”_

You turn around and it takes you a second to evaluate your options.

Bucky notices.

He _immediately_ felt bad when you’d pushed open the door. He hadn’t expected you to be here again, but he supposes that’s how this therapy thing works, huh? Routine. Structure. He wasn’t going to tell Dr. Raynor (didn’t want it to go to her head), but this whole thing is helping. A little bit. He felt like he was in control of one thing, at least, and that was where he was going to be every Tuesday at 9am.

He also notices that you’re pretty. You’ve got big, tired doe-eyes. You hold yourself like you’re fragile.

He almost gets up when you linger a second longer, a look of panic swelling in your eyes — but you move to sit where he did last time before he can stand. Your attention is immediately on the bonsai tree. An approving look comes across your face when you notice it’s been trimmed recently.

Bucky’s eyes move to the wrapper that begins to crinkle in your hands.

On the good days, he remembers most things. Like his mom, his sister, his old house. He remembers boxing, his first Championship Title win, and where he used to go dancing with Steve. It took a long time, and a lot of journals full of feverish scribbles, but he remembered. Now, he isn’t afraid of forgetting like he was. But, recently there have been little details that flick him in the forehead and leave him staring into space, dumbfounded at the simplest things like the senile old man he really is.

He’s having one of those very moments.

The licorice in your hand. It’s red. Strawberry flavored? No. _Cherry?_ Could be. It’s twisty.

He watches you take a bite.

All of a sudden, he blurts it out.

_“Red vines.”_

Your head snaps to him, eyes wide. The Twizzler is hanging out of your mouth. You choke a bit.

“...I’m sorry?”

Bucky’s mouth falls open and his brows lift in quiet realization he’d all but shouted the name of the candy he used to waddle down to the general store on fifth street with a penny for.

God, he loved those fuckin’ things. Used to tear them apart to make ‘em last longer.

His mouth hangs open for a second and he blinks once, twice, three times at you. You’re like a deer in headlights, gripping half the licorice in your hand and the other half dangling from your lips. It’d been a good bite. He almost laughs at how terrified you look — but instead, he shakes his head and pulls the corners of his mouth downwards in a _“don’t worry about it”_ expression.

“I, uh,” he waves a hand in an attempt to move on. His voice is quiet. Almost a mumble, “I haven’t had one of those in, like, a hundred years. Give or take.”

Suddenly, Dr. Raynor is in the doorway.

Bucky meets her gaze, and then he’s gone.

And you’re left to look over your shoulder, wide-eyed as he disappears down the hall, with half the Twizzler still hanging out of your mouth.

* * *

He isn’t there the following week.

You sit in your usual spot and stare at the ninety-two-year-old bonsai.

* * *

“Have you been doing your ABC sheets?”

You’re chewing the inside of your lip when Dr. Hart asks. You suppose she knows the answer before you even speak judging by the pointed look she’s pinned you in your chair with. You cross your legs tightly, fingers busy drawing patterns in the pale grey suede of the armchair. Your frown is self-deprecating.

“I didn’t think my ABCs applied to this.”

“Those sheets are going to apply to most things, you know,” she raises a brow, “Like _last week_. Remember? When someone took your seat in the waiting room. There’s a stuck point in there.”

“It’s just a _seat_.”

“But to you,” Dr. Hart clicks her pen, “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Your leg is bouncing again. Up and down. Up and down. She clicks her pen again and you draw a tight circle in the suede over and over. There’s a tight silence that feels physical. The sort to make your chest tight. Words aren’t easy, now.

You wince.

You speak slowly.

“I like to do what I do. What I always do.”

“So it’s about being in control?” Dr. Hart suggests gently.

You pout. Immediately ducking your head to your hands, you nod. She’s right. You two have been over this. It’s the social anxiety and the trust issues and the little flickers of bad that creep up when you start to feel the world spin just a little too fast around you.

“...Guess I shoulda done my worksheets.”

“No shit,” Dr. Hart clicks her pen one final time and then sits forward. She’s smiling in a motherly sort of way. The kind of way you missed all those years your mom was gone. It settles you down. She turns in her chair, facing her large birchwood desk that has a bamboo plant on the highest shelf. Placing her notepad down, Dr. Hart claps her hands together, “I’m giving you homework this week. Do your worksheets...”

She trails off, jotting down a note.

_“And?”_ you quirk your head, looking mildly pained.

“And, I want you to talk to the person who took your seat. Who knows. Maybe you’ll make a friend.”

Before you can argue against it, that you already have friends, Dr. Hart raises a finger. She shushes you and stands. She gestures to the door.

After all, your time is up.

* * *

You’ve decided that, in order to curb the seat-stealing, you’ll simply get to your appointment twenty minutes early from now on.

The rented space that operates as Dr. Hart and Dr. Raynor’s joint office is on the sixth floor. The building itself is massive — all glass windows lining the street, plenty of natural light. Even a security desk up front. Very modern. Still brutalist and sharp, but nice. It was almost always busy.

And, it seems like your seat stealing stranger had the same idea as you today.

He’s _early_.

You notice someone looming over your shoulder the moment you press the elevator’s up button. The glossy little plate goes red. You frown to yourself.

You have to remember to breathe when the elevator quickly becomes full. You’re shouldered to the back corner — and you’re twiddling your fingers in circles on your palm as you breathe in and hold and let go. With each floor, the elevator grows emptier and with each floor it gets easier to breathe.

Finally, after a minute that feels like an hour, it’s only you and the sofa poacher in the lift.

You can feel his eyes on you. When you turn to look, you can’t help but notice he’s fast to avert his eyes. He rocks on the heels of his black, steel-toed boots. He clears his throat. There’s a second of tense silence.

Then, he leans over and without looking at you, offers:

“Sorry I took your seat.”

You blink up at him. There’s this pained smile on his face as he says it — one that seems almost embarrassed. He’s looking at you now, eyes roaming your guarded reaction.

“It’s, uh, it’s the only spot in the waiting room where you can see all the exits,” he says slowly, “I get a little paranoid. Dr. Raynor said I probably owed you an apology. Told me I’d forgotten my _manners_.”

You relax a little.

“I was considering pressing charges, y’know. It’s a pretty egregious crime...” comes the easy reply. It shocks you. When’s the last time you cracked a joke with someone? Before the Snap, maybe. Your previous malice and anxiety begin to melt from your posture when he snorts quietly, “But, it’s not like my name’s written on it. So thanks.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” he breathes as the doors to the elevator open, “Yeah, it’s no problem.”

You move as the doors swing open. He holds a hand, high above your head, to keep the doors from closing. He’s quick to open the door to the office for you. Suddenly, you feel bad for being so… _irritated_. He clearly was just trying to make himself more comfortable in a new setting. Rationally speaking, you understood completely.

You check-in with Paula and when you meander on towards your usual spot, you sit far to the left of the sofa. You lean up against the arm and watch as the man turns to look for a seat.

Bucky is surprised to find that you’re inclining your head towards the now free spot beside you.

The smile that creeps into his cheeks is quick and small but very real.

* * *

The next week, he gets there early and makes sure to leave room for you on the sofa.

He tries not to act like he was waiting for you when you enter the office; you toss him a small wave before moving to check-in with Paula. She must have noticed the exhausted look on your face — all thanks to the way your week had been while dealing with the trauma narrative Dr. Hart had assigned for homework — and offers up some Twizzlers again.

You make a point of taking two.

When you sit down, the man beside you offers a closed-lip smile.

You offer the Twizzler.

He pauses, eyes lighting up a bit. It’s subtle enough, but you notice the micro-twitch of his brows almost immediately.

You’re already biting into yours when you speak. “What did you call these?”

“Red Vines,” Bucky blinks, fingers stilling as he nods. His words are slow and he speaks with a profound sense of finality that’s incredibly comedic, “And I called them that because that’s what they are.”

“They’re _Twizzlers_ ,” you chew, eyeing the licorice in your hand, “Red Vines sound like something that would give me a _rash_.”

“Yeah, well, Twizzler sounds stupid,” he supplies, taking his own bite, “... _Twizzler_. Who even came up with that?”

That gets a snort out of you. Quiet. Barely there. But it’s a laugh.

You flick your wrapper at him when Dr. Hart calls your name. Bucky smiles to himself as you disappear around the corner.

* * *

“Nice brick.”

Bucky jumps.

He’d been preoccupied with the cellphone in his hands.

Dr. Raynor had suggested he get one. To keep in contact with friends, she’d said. But, Bucky couldn’t even figure out how to send a ‘text’ on this thing. He didn’t know what any of this meant — and even still, this one had buttons. Nothing like that weird touchscreen shit he saw at the local mobile store.

He blinks. He hadn’t even heard you sit down next to him in the waiting room.

“What?”

“ _That_ ,” you point, finger waggling, “The phone. It’s a brick. Could probably survive a nuclear blast. Kinda like a cockroach, y’know?”

“That’s a nice feature,” he mumbles, “Did I pay extra for that?”

“No,” you laugh a little, “It’s built-in with those Nokias.”

His brows raise quickly, and he folds the phone over in his gloved hands.

“Do, uh… Do you know how to type on this thing? Y’know, how to send a ‘text’?”

Your lashes flutter. There’s confusion swirling in your eyes. Bucky can see it — and it makes him feel sheepish for even asking. But, you nod and gesture with a gimme motion. He hands over the flip phone. Intrigued, he watches as you effortlessly pull up the inbox and start a new message.

“The numbers,” you explain, “Are letters. So, uh, ‘hi’ is just the four button twice, then three times.”

His face is stoic. He speaks evenly. “What the fuck.”

“Listen, you bought this ancient relic, not me,” you wave a hand in the air dismissively, “I’m surprised you didn’t invest in a little charm for this thing.”

“And you, uh, you text the same way?”

“No way, grandpa,” you mutter, confused about his naivete when it came to the technology — but again, who were you to judge. You reach into your back pocket and muscle your own phone out. The thing is light and sleek compared to the blunt force weapon in Bucky’s hand, “It’s a touchscreen.”

“Too complicated.”

“Says the man literally wearing out his three key already.”

* * *

You aren’t at your appointment the next week.

Bucky just stares at the old bonsai tree and worries.

* * *

You’re in the coffee shop down the street from Dr. Hart’s office, thirty minutes before your appointment, when someone taps you on the shoulder.

It’s a little place, in the basement of a retail shop. It’s usually quiet. You don’t worry as much as usual about the crowding — not like what happens at Starbucks. That sort of shit is painfully anxiety-inducing. Too many eyes. Too many ways to fuck up.

You can’t help but laugh when you turn around to see the stranger from the waiting room. Suddenly, you’re not tapping your foot. You’re not as anxious as before.

You both speak at the same time.

“You missed your appointment last week.”

“Are you _stalking_ me?”

Bucky snorts. Your face is lit up — a rare look of genuine contentment settling in the weight of your lips. He steps up next to you by the end of the counter, apparently waiting for an order just like you. His hands are in his pockets.

“If I was stalking you,” he says, pursing his lips and watching the barista, “You wouldn’t know until it’s too late.”

“ _Ooh,_ ” you coo, eyes wandering the menu you’d already ordered from, “Big words coming from the technologically inept one. Speaking of, how’s the texting going? Finally spell out a word?”

“Can’t say I really have anyone I text.”

You look up at him then. “No one?”

“No one.”

You hum. Before you can reply, the barista calls your name and slides your order across the counter. It’s a hot tea with honey — not what you’d usually opt for, but Dr. Hart had been rather adamant about cutting back on the caffeine intake. It was a blow, but one that had quickly settled a lot of your wilder panic attacks.

When you return to the stranger’s side, his voice is soft.

“So that’s your name.”

You snort a hot burst of air through your nose. You duck your head.

“It _fits_ , y’know,” he nudges you gently with his elbow, “Definitely fits.”

Then, the barista calls out a tall cold brew for _Becky_.

The man beside you sighs.

Your brows raise. He moves, retrieving the order. He shoots you a look — one that’s borderline murderous.

“ _Becky?_ ” you ask, falling in step with him, “No judgment—”

“Don’t say it—”

“—It fits?” you take a sly sip of your tea.

The morning air is cold. Becky holds the door for you. He’s got the gloves on, still. Even though it’s forty-five out and the sun is bright. But, like a lot of things with this man, you opt not to ask.

“It’s _Bucky_ , actually,” he makes a point to enunciate his letters, “And _that_ happens more often than I’d like to admit.”

“Hm. Bucky,” you say, testing it on your tongue.

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

You nod, turning mid-step to offer your hand.

He shakes it.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His laugh is warm — the sort that feels like a rare little glimpse of someone he used to be. Somehow, it almost seems foreign to him. You catch that look in his eyes, but continue to try and match his longer strides. His legs are long.

“Does this make us friends?” he asks, suddenly.

“I dunno,” you mutter with a hopeful look, “Does it?”

“I think I’d like to be friends,” he nods, sipping the cold brew as the two of you come to rest at a crosswalk, “You _are_ sort of funny. Good with technology, too. You could be useful to keep around.”

You’re rolling your eyes before you can stop yourself.

“Well, Dr. Hart keeps telling _me_ that my cat doesn’t count as a friend, so seems like I’m also in the market for some. Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” Bucky waves at a car that stops, letting them cross, with the practiced ease of someone born and raised in this city, “Cat?”

He’s smiling into his drink when you perk up and yank your phone out before slipping past him when he holds the door to the lobby open for you.

“His legal name is Mister Poke Bowl, but you can call him Poke,” you explain, lighting up the screen with a rather nice photo of a calico sunbathing and passing it his way, “So, yeah. Cat.”

“... I like cats.”

“Well, we’re friends. So you’ll have to meet him sometime.”

You’re both smiling when you enter the elevator, fifteen minutes early for your appointments. 


	2. BUT I'VE HAD WORSE NIGHTMARES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky should probably tell you about the arm. Friends don't lie to friends, right?

“So you’d consider her a friend.”

“...Is that a _question_ , doc?”

“More of a conclusion,” Dr. Raynor says, thumbing her pen as she crosses her legs and lets out a long exhale. She’s watching him — watching him like he watches other people. It makes Bucky itch. She continues, “One that’s a bit surprising, if I’m being completely honest.”

“What’s so surprising about that?” Bucky retorts, hands clasped in front of him as he bounces his knee. His tone is dry. His eyes are tired.

“Let’s be honest, James, you’re shit at maintaining interpersonal relationships,” Dr. Raynor leans forward, “You’re aloof, _bitter_ , and at times, ridiculously cold. You’ve got a track record of going off the grid and a big shadow that you walk in.”

“Gee, thanks—”

“—I’m not done,” she says flippantly, raising a finger, “I was going to say, despite all that, you’ve made a friend. Someone who you connect with. And that’s a big step in the right direction, James.”

Bucky is quiet. His eyes find the carpet and he traces the pattern. He does that when he thinks. When his brain decides to settle on the topic at hand — a rare little moment of focus. Of acceptance. Because Raynor is right. Despite how much he hates it — how much he hates that he isn’t the man he used to be — she knows him. She knows what makes him tick.

“You’re going to have to tell her, you know.”

He flinches.

She continues. “Because if you don’t, she’s going to never really know you. As much as you’re not the man you used to be, that’s still a part of your personal past. And c’mon, James, how long can you really go wearing that leather jacket? And the gloves? You look like a mob fixer.”

“They’re _comfortable_ —”

“It’s 65 degrees and sunny out—”

“Won’t get a sunburn—”

“Try heatstroke.”

There’s quiet. Bucky bites the inside of his lip. Dr. Raynor crosses her arms as she cocks her head. Then she sighs.

“I know this isn’t easy, James,” her voice is slow and gentle — gentler than usual, “That adjusting to this _new life_ isn’t easy. I know you want to run away from it some days, but… That arm is who you are. It’s part of you. Literally and metaphorically. If you hide that from someone you care about, you’re hiding a part of yourself.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Really?”

“No,” he scoffs, “No, no—”

“Does she have your phone number?”

He pauses. “...What?”

“Your phone number,” Dr. Raynor narrows her eyes, “Does she have your phone number?”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky’s eyes narrow. His tone was too defensive. Even he knew it.

She reads him in that second. “Gimme the phone.”

For the second time that month, Bucky is sighing and digging that flip phone from his back pocket. He tugs it out of his black jeans and tosses it to Dr. Raynor. She catches it, flips it open. And stares.

“Oh, but you have hers. Which means either you’re _lying_ — which wouldn’t get you anywhere, _you know that_ — or you’re putting distance between the two of you. Don’t do that. It’s not going to build a healthy relationship, James.”

“What, so I just give her my phone number?” he asks, almost incredulous.

“Yes,” Dr. Raynor nearly screams, waving her hands and looking to the ceiling, “It’s about _trust_ , James.”

“Well, I have a problem trusting people,” he finally snaps with a dry tone, “Can you blame me, doc? Really? Geez, it’s like I’m being nailed to the cross here. It’s all a habit. I… I get _nervous_. Trusting people was… never something I had to do. It was all orders and brainwashing and fuckin’ buffet dinners of IV bags I could never pronounce. When I got out —”

His voice gets high and tight. He sighs. Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m _trying_ , doc.”

“I never said you weren’t,” says Raynor after a minute of quiet, “So keep trying. And let yourself be uncomfortable.”

He rubs his face. Dr. Raynor is standing now, and Bucky’s eyes flick to the clock above her desk. His session is up.

As she stands, Dr. Raynor opens the door. “Think about telling her, James.”

He nods.

“See you next week, doc.”

* * *

_You’re laughing._

_You’re laughing and Mom is saying something to Jaimie in the backseat, something about a seatbelt, and you can see his eyes rolling in the rearview as he pretends to clip it over his waist, but it’s Jaimie and Jaimie is tall and lanky like Dad was and he cracks a joke about how he barely fits in the old station wagon’s backseat while his legs are bowed and suddenly Mom isn’t there but the car is still moving, moving, moving, moving —_

Stop.

Your eyes are open.

Outside, a car drives by and the headlights dance on the ceiling. The sheets are clinging to you, suffocating you, and you can feel the inevitable, slow crawl of panic winding its way up your chest, pricking the skin of your cheeks. You’re hot but you’re freezing and you try, Christ alive you _try_ , to remember how to square breathe.

This goes on for a long time.

Long enough that, when your 9am appointment finally comes and goes, you’re still in bed.

Finally, you’re asleep — after hours of pacing when panic reached its horrible crescendo, exhausting you— when your phone rings.

It vibrates mercilessly against your nightstand and stokes a sudden, hot flare of anger in your chest.

You roll, eyes half-open and slam your hand down to catch the phone. You drag it close, squinting. Muscle memory has you wanting to silence the call and throw the phone down and away; sleep is calling and it's quiet there, an escape.

But the caller ID makes you pause.

_UKNOWN NUMBER  
_ _Brooklyn, NY_

Your phone unlocks with a click. You flop onto your back.

You worry your brow with your fingers. Your eyes are closed.

“Hello?”

_“You missed your appointment. That’s not very self-care of you, y’know.”_

You know that voice. With a quiet exhale, you blink into the morning sun pouring through the windows; the warm light is blurred by the curtains, and that happy, green monstera you’ve been nursing for months looks happy. You’re jealous.

“I was _sleeping,_ Bucky.”

_“What?”_

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you’re greeted by Poke — he chirps as he pushes your bedroom door open and trots over. He’s pushing his face against your legs as you stand.

“I had a long night.”

There’s a pause.

Outside Dr. Raynor’s office downtown, Bucky’s brows are knotted tight.

_“The good sorta long night, or...?”_

You scoff and move to scoop up Poke. He meows quietly, assuming his usually swaddled-baby position in your arms. The phone is tucked under your chin as you speak. “If you think I was out partying—”

“I dunno,” Bucky mutters, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks up the street, “You’re _young_.”

“Why are you saying that like you’re _not_ , grandpa?” with a shake of your head, you bend and let Poke land gently on the kitchen floor, “Relax. I had a bad… dream, I guess.”

Bucky makes a point of kicking the nearby parking meter with the toe of his boot as he listens and tries to ignore the itch of his anxiety. This is the first time in, what, four weeks he hasn’t seen you? He feels like a fuckin’ puppy dog. Separation anxiety. And as much as it makes him freeze up, Dr. Raynor made a real good point this week that you’re slowly becoming a permanent fixture in his life, even if it’s for the twenty, thirty minutes he sees you every week before therapy.

Hell, it’s more than he sees anyone nowadays.

And he needs to _trust_ you.

He needs to stop putting up walls.

Especially with Steve… Y’know. Dying.

But, he doesn’t wanna think about that. No, he’s busy trying to remedy this sudden change in the routine he’d gotten used to. Usually on Tuesday’s he heads to the diner on 6th street in Brooklyn, just a jog from his apartment, and sits with coffee and a paper. Breaking that portion of his routine was destined to send him into a spiral and… he’s been good these last few weeks. Not so on edge. Like he’s finally starting to live again.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks slowly, eyes squinting at the high rise behind him, “I gotta eat anyways.”

On the other end of the phone, it’s your turn to feel the edge of anxiety grace your heart. “What do you mean?”

At your feet, Poke meows. You blink, apologetically frowning as you lean to dump his breakfast into his bowl. Bucky must have heard the meow, or maybe the nervousness in your voice, because he lets out one of those little scoffs of amusement he does. You can see the corners of his eyes crinkling in your head.

_“You ever been to Dolly’s? On 6th and 14th?”_

A long time ago. Before the Snap. When… When things were different. But, you don’t say that.

“I dunno, Bucky,” you mumble, “I dunno if… If I can handle… _that_.”

_“That bad of a dream, huh?”_

“It wasn’t a dream,” you say slowly, sagging a bit, “A memory. You know how it is.”

Christ, does he. And he knows being alone with the echoes is worse than anything — and sure, maybe Dr. Raynor has been telling him that for weeks but he didn’t need her to say it to know.

“Well, get your shoes on. I’ll meet you there. They have good pancakes.”

“Bucky—”

 _“C’mon,_ ” he barks and you can hear the smile, “ _You know better than anyone that getting out will help.”_

You groan. He’s right. He’s usually right, and even when he is, he is so fuckin’ stubborn that it doesn’t really matter — like two weeks ago when he’s called your jeans _pedal pushers_ and for twenty minutes you had to sit and listen to him go on and on about how ‘ _capris_ ’ didn’t make any sense. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that they were neither, just mom jeans rolled up over the tops of your sneakers. You sat there, staring at the bonsai and snickered.

Bucky is _weird_.

And petty, and stubborn, and particular and a bit distant.

But, so are you.

Maybe that’s why you both got along so well.

“Fine,” you mutter, petting Poke, “But I’m paying.”

_“No—”_

“Yep, okay, see you soon, bye—”

_“Don’t you hang up on me—”_

You do, and that explains the rather sour look on his face when you spot him outside Dolly’s. He stands out like a sore thumb; all broad and bulky and scowling. It’s warming up, and spring is almost here, but his usual jet-black, leather jacket hangs heavy on his shoulders. The gloves stay, too.

You don’t ask — you won’t. That’s Bucky’s cross to bear.

You don’t want to be rude. Not to your new friend.

“You’re _not_ paying.”

He mutters that lowly, nudging you with his shoulder when you follow him inside. Even with your face settled gently with a smile, he can see the pointed edge of anxiety flash in your eyes suddenly. It’s busy in here — nearly all the booths are taken, but there’s one in the corner that he sees being bussed. It holds enough promise to quell your nervousness that he quickly flags down the waitress and points to the spot.

“Oh, hi there, stranger!”

Bucky offers the woman a smile you haven’t seen before. It’s nearly bashful.

“Hi, Frankie,” he says warmly, “Mind if we grab this one?”

“Sure, sure,” she chirps, waving her hand as she moves back behind the counter, “Want your usual?”

“Please,” he smiles as he gestures for you to snag the booth side that faces the door — and you squeeze his arm in quiet thanks, “You want coffee?”

“Just water, please.”

When you finally settle in, you exhale.

Bucky, across from you, raises his brows.

“You okay?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Always.”

“This is, like, the first time I’ve gone somewhere to eat in maybe a year,” you shrug, “So, a little rough. Sort of overwhelming. But, those pancakes that guy is eating at the counter _do_ look good. So, worth it, I think.”

Bucky leans back, crossing his arms. “Is it the people?”

“Always is.”

It hasn’t always been but — things got worse after the Snap.

You fiddle with the menu while Bucky takes to eyeing the people in the diner. He goes quiet — mostly because he’s _thinking_ — but it’s enough to stir you out of the omelets section with a blink. From behind the menu, you raise your chin. Your eyes come over the edge of the pink and white menu and you watch Bucky watch something else. Behind thick lashes, your gaze narrows.

Then you follow his eyes to the jukebox in the corner.

“...Go on, then, _Elvis_.”

Bucky’s head snaps to you. He’s confused. His brows are all screwed up. “Who?”

“Elvis… Presley?” you shirk, squinting, “Y’know. _Hound Dog? Jailhouse Rock_?”

Bucky’s mouth is open, head shaking.

“... _Burning Love?_ ”

More silence. Your eyes are wide with silent shock.

“ _Heartbreak Hotel?!_ ”

“I have _no idea_ what you’re saying to me right now,” he says with a deadpan look that pins you in your seat with a comical look of disbelief, “No idea. Why are… are all those names the same? They sound the same—”

“Are you being _serious_ right now?”

“Completely,” he nods, “Oh, _wait_ — is he the one with the, uh, the white suit…”

“With the tassels and the rhinestones, _yes_ —”

“Oh,” Bucky nods, waving you off as he turns his attention back to his own menu, “You’re talking about that guy down in Times Square.”

Your jaw is still hanging open, but now you’re looking around the diner like you’ll find a hidden camera — and then, that guy from the What Would You Do If Your Friend Didn’t Know Who Elvis Was would pop out.

“No, _Bucky_ —” you’re exasperated, “That’s… That guy is _impersonating_ Elvis.”

“Why on Earth would he do that?”

_“Oh my god—”_

“Coffee! And water!” cuts in Frankie, unknowingly giving a moment of respite from the ridiculousness Bucky seems not to understand. She’s an older waitress with red lips and a big ol’ pile of curls atop her head, “And do we know what we want to eat?”

_Thank God._

“Big Man Special for me, please,” Bucky offers, folding up his menu and placing it back in it’s slot by the salt and pepper. Again, unphased.

“Big Man Special for the big man,” she cheeps with a flirty little swat of her pen, turning with a big, warm smile, “And for you, pretty?”

“Two chocolate chip pancakes, please,” you say, ignoring your own _Big Man Special_ joke that’s just waiting to spring off your tongue, “And no onions in the home fries.”

“Perfect! Be out in a minute for you two.”

She disappears, and you squint at Bucky.

“You’re _weird_ , big man.”

That makes Bucky laugh — mostly because you’re right, but also because being weird has come as second nature while relearning how to live. The truth of it is he’s old now, and though he may not look it, he feels every bit like he should be playing bingo with the old vets down at the VFA. In the years he’d been on ice, pumped full of enough benzodiazepines and amphetamines to slow his heart just enough to keep him teetering between life and death, he’d missed a lot.

Like Elvis, apparently.

He knew about _Bruce Springsteen_ — Steve liked him. Bucky wonders if Elvis is on that list Steve gave him to catch up on. Must be. He’ll have to check when he gets home. It was extensive. He’s gotten through some of it. It’s just… overwhelming. Nothing's the same anymore. And it terrifies Bucky.

“Yeah, well, I used to be cool. Dunno what happened.”

_Try a world war, HYDRA, and a vibranium arm, nerd._

“Sorry for your loss,” you chirp, “But, I’m finding that sort of hard to believe, y’know.”

You’re smirking. Bucky finds your eyes and his own smile is a hot flash of affection — the sort he tamps down nice and quick because it scares him. He drums his knuckles against the table and leans back again.

“... You feelin’ better?”

The jukebox begins playing a crooner’s tune and you nod slowly. Your eyes move around the diner, and Bucky watches. There’s a pull in the corner of your lips — miniscule and oh so almost there — when you speak. It’s almost a whisper. You lean forward like you’re telling a secret.

“I sort of forgot what it was like to feel like a real person,” you pause, “So thank you.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m _serious_ —”

“It’s not even noon,” he has his usual deadpan expression on, “You’re not allowed to get sappy until noon. It’s a rule.”

“That’s _not_ a rule and I’m _not_ being sappy—”

“Yeah, it’s a new rule _I_ just made, and you’re going to make _me_ get sappy so watch it.”

You laugh out loud, then.

And Bucky’s eyes crinkle, and you both sit in comfortable silence until the food comes.

* * *

You’re matching his steps, hands up. Bucky is decidedly ignoring your theatrics, but you keep catching him sliding you a side-eye every time you throw them. He’s tall and his strides are long and every few feet you have to hurry up to catch up.

Food was good — very good. And worth it. And now, you feel normal. Not drowning in anxiousness. Maybe in need of a good nap, sure, but this feeling is foreign to you. Especially when Bucky laughs.

“What else haven’t you heard of?” you cry, “First Elvis, now what? _ABBA?”_

He scoffs. “You seriously think I haven’t heard of ABBA?”

You gawk and you swat at his shoulder. _Ouch_. Fuck, he’s solid.

“Bucky, I don’t even know what to fucking think anymore—”

“ _Fernando!_ That’s a good song. I like that one. And,” he pops both hands up, all while his face remains decidedly emotionless, while coming to a stop at the crosswalk. He snaps his fingers, “Uh, what’s the one about money?”

“ _Money, Money, Money?”_

“Probably.”

You snort out loud — and Bucky grins up at the walk sign.

“Be honest,” your banter feels like a game of tennis, “Are you from another planet?”

“Try another century.”

He says it with a scary sort of seriousness that pricks a sudden feeling of suspicion. It’s one that hadn’t been there before — but now the compounding conversations make more sense. And in this new age, anything is possible. Bucky must have seen the paranoia flash onto your face like a lightning strike because he’s quick to nudge you with his good arm.

“Relax. S’a joke. Sort of.”

_“... Sort of?”_

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll tell you about it if you don’t bail on therapy next week.”

You shoot him a look, nearing the steps of your apartment. “Are you preaching to _me_ about perfect attendance?”

“Hey, I’m on _court orde_ r now — I can’t skip.”

You whirl around _. “What?!”_

But Bucky’s already moving down the street, grinning ear to ear with a mischievous look that has you wondering if he’s even being serious — he backpedals, foot traffic moving around him like salmon swimming upstream.

“Don’t worry about it, _Hound Dog,_ ” he shouts, “See you next week.”

“Did you just call me _Hound Dog?_ ” you holler back.

Bucky just laughs.

* * *

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

You scoff, tossing your wet socks from one hand to the other before lobbing the pair into the dryer. You turn and serve the older woman leaning against the adjacent washer a look — but, it’s ferocity is tainted with the ghostly slip of a smile.

Bonnie McLayne, or as she insists to be called: Miss Bonnie, musters up a bellow of a laugh. The sound is crisp and cracks like an autumn leaf, no doubt from years of Marlboros and cheap whiskey. Her spindly fingers make work on her own basket of dried laundry. Her long skirt touches the unfinished floor and her jewelry tinkers like bells as she bends and sways and smiles.

“Little bit of Vitamin D?” comes the next question, sunnied by her lipstick-painted smile.

She’s the sort of woman that has remained forever radiant, even after years of youth-inspired wildness. She’s a child of free love, of peace, of a whole life spent in this very Brooklyn apartment. She’s got long, long hair that’s greying; it’s auburn color melting through the messy tendrils that hang from her usual bun.

Miss Bonnie is nice.

When the Snap happened, you had Poke. And you had Miss Bonnie.

“Stop it,” you say quietly, shaking your head as you clear the lint filter. You’re almost smiling.

“I was talking about the sun, y’know. It’s almost spring, after all,” she cheeps, dropping both hands to her waist, “But _that_ cheeky little reply told me _everything_ I needed to know.”

“I am not —”

“What’s his name? Her name?”

You just shake your head and give her a breathy laugh in response. “Miss Bonnie…”

“Fine! Fine! You’re right. None a’ my business…” she cries with a wave before dropping her tone and leaning forward to waggle her brows, “A friend?”

“A friend,” you reply sternly, shaking out an old sundress you’d pulled from your closet, “And that’s all it is.”

“Hey, kid,” she swats the air as her voice grows tender and level, “A friend is big for you. I’m glad. That’s nice.”

Your movements slow. You pause, eyeing the fabric of the dress in your hands — and you try to remember the last time you wore it. You find, rather immediately, that you can’t. There’s a sharp flare of fear that it won't fit you. You ignore it.

“Thanks, Miss Bonnie.”

She’s passing you with a gentle touch of her long, delicate fingers. Bonnie touches your shoulder, pushes her glasses up her nose, and disappears up the stairs.

It’s quiet. The only sound is the dryer.

You dig your phone from your pocket.

You type out a text to the number that called you earlier this morning.

_if you’re some sort of superhero i’ll be pissed._


End file.
